


Victimized

by altogether_strange



Category: Original Work
Genre: Blindfolds, Bondage, F/M, Femdom, Forced Orgasm, Gags, Kidnapping, Milking, Non-Consensual Bondage, Non-Consensual Tickling, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sex Toys, Tickle torture, Tickling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-13
Updated: 2019-08-13
Packaged: 2020-08-20 13:06:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20228323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/altogether_strange/pseuds/altogether_strange
Summary: Get on your knees and prove your worth.





	Victimized

**Author's Note:**

> Remember me? I'm the guy who's been gone for thirty-three days. I'm not even going to try and excuse that. I hope you'll accept my apology nonetheless. In case anybody even gives a shit anymore, here's a oneshot based on various sexual fantasies I have about a real person. (I couldn't bring myself to name him because I was too ashamed. But if you want a hint, it's in the summary.) I know that some people who read my Couples Therapy series like it when the characters enjoy being tickled, and I do as well, but I get off more so on the desperation. Nevertheless, I think I achieved both in this story. I hope this attracts the attention of the same people who read my other works. I miss you. I hope you don't hate me for being gone for so long. I hope at least someone enjoys this. If you do, please comment. It means a lot to me. I just want to feel like I'm doing something right anymore.

They followed him home to ensure his capture would be as unobserved as possible. Of course, procuring him in such an intimate setting could summon the attention of people who knew him personally, but at 3:17 AM, those people were almost certainly asleep and therefore would be blind to his abduction. And because his car was now parked in plain sight on his driveway, a speculation of disappearance was slim to none.  
He had returned home so late at night because of an undesirably tardy arrival at the airport and would undoubtedly be jet lagged as a result, potentially diminishing his energy and decelerating his reaction time, consequently increasing the ease of his seizure.  
As soon as he locked the doors of his car and deposited his keys into his front pocket, they were on him. His eyes had closed as he was overwhelmed by a yawn, and he hadn’t noticed the figures encroaching on him from behind, enveloped in the shadow of dark clothing and midnight tenebrosity. A gloved hand was pressed over his eyes and a noxious rag was secured over his nose and mouth. Two more hands, bare and scabrous, were used to subdue his frantic struggles; each grabbed one of his wrists and pulled his arms over his chest in a position akin to the letter X. His thrashing reduced to squirming, he was held in place as he slowly succumbed to the chloroform saturating the rag as he grew more desperate for breath. Once he slumped back into the arms of the man behind him, unconscious, he was pulled forward by the man ahead of him and yanked off the ground and thrown over his shoulder. The two assailants carried their victim down the driveway and deposited him into the trunk of their car, securing his wrists and ankles with zip ties before shutting him inside. Target acquired, they got in the car and drove away under the cover of night.

He floated in and out of consciousness while they were parking.  
He did not fight back when he was removed from the trunk and hauled through the parking garage and into the elevator.  
He found his voice as they made their way down a dark hallway. He shouted at his aggressors, demanded to know who they were and where he was. He was ignored.  
They opened a door at the end of the hallway and he squinted at the sudden incursion of light. He was thrown into the room and the door was shut behind him. He hit the floor hard and groaned when his body made contact with the concrete. He howled into the empty room, hoping to be heard by whoever had dragged him through the hallway. He called out to them again. He squirmed into an awkward sitting position and inched towards the door, shouting all the while. He tugged impetuously at the zip tie that bound his wrists, his adrenaline silencing the pain his grappling brought. He was reaching for the door handle when a hand planted itself on his head from behind him. He whipped his head around, eyes wild with frenzied fear, but saw nothing denoting the identity of this new assaulter.  
He was yanked backward and dragged by his hair across the length of the room. His incandescent yelling soon devolved into whining at the pain that emerged from his scalp. He was thrust up from the ground by his arms. As soon as he was standing he was knocked off his feet again. He was shoved roughly onto a table and his attempts to fight against his besieger were halted when he saw them.  
Their body was concealed entirely in black latex. The material shone in the dim light of the room.  
For a second, he was paralyzed with fear. That was all the time his indistinguishable aggressor needed to pull his arms above his head and secure his wrists with padded restraints. After this, they walked away. He regained his composure and started to tug at his supplementary set of bonds, but his newly restored confidence was once again depleted when the person reemerged in front of him holding a knife. His breath caught in his throat. He watched with widened eyes as they moved the knife towards his arms, only to slice through the zip tie pinioning his wrists.  
He exhaled unsteadily through his nose. His captor repeated their actions with the tie on his ankles, and as they began to secure them separately in straps similar in appearance to the ones that held his wrists, he again became irritable.  
“Hey—!” He punctuated his outburst with a kick from his one free leg, directed at his detainer.  
Yelling this word hadn’t gotten the attention of his previous tormentors, but it sure worked on this one. They lashed out with their knife and brought it down in the direction of his leg. He screamed, but the blade only punctured the sole of his shoe. It was an intimidation tactic, not a legitimate attempt to wound him. He stopped moving altogether, petrified by fear. He watched the face of his attacker closely as they restrained his other leg. The black rubber concealed any discernible facial features. Once satisfied with his immobility, they walked away from the table, leaving the knife in his shoe as a warning. He was still even after they left his field of vision. When they returned, he barely had time to register what they held in their hands before it was placed over his head. Immediately, he was blindfolded. He cried out in protest, but was silenced by something large that they shoved into his open mouth. He felt it with his tongue as he gasped against it. It was a ball gag. He began to hyperventilate.  
The harness was secured behind his head and he felt all at once extremely vulnerable. He could hear the sound of something being unzipped and started to panic.  
Beyond the obscurity of his blindfold, his captor unfastened the headpiece of her bodysuit and peeled it away from her face. She continued by removing the bodice and exposed her arms and hands, characterized by sharp stiletto-shaped acrylic nails. Once the suit was entirely detached, she wore nothing but a long sleeved lingerie one piece made of black lace. A deep V-shaped neckline exposed much of the skin of her chest and sternum, and her legs were displayed up to the hip bones by the skimpy material. The thin strip of cotton concealing her between her legs was moistening at the sight before her. She leaned over him, close enough to his face to smell the sweat on his skin and hear the trepidation in his breath.  
“I’ve waited a long time for you,” she said to him in a voice like velvet, “long enough to plan out every little vile thing I want to do to you.” She stroked the length of his chest and stomach with a slow and gentle hand. His shirt bowed under her delicate touch and the fabric brushed against his skin gingerly enough to send chills down his back.  
“You’re worth a lot of money, you know. I paid those goons handsomely to get you here.” This time the chills he felt weren’t pleasurable.  
“I hope they were nice to you. I told them to bring you to me unharmed.”  
She positioned her face even closer to his, so close that he could feel the peach fuzz on the skin around her lips. Her breath tickled the inside of his ear.  
“Because hurting you is my job.”  
His chest bucked as he let out an inadvertent sob. He sank his teeth into the thick rubber that wrenched his jaw open. He hadn’t wanted to show any weakness to this woman. He had hoped that if he could keep up a confident façade long enough, he would start to feel that way. But her words planted seeds of fear inside him that grew into tendrils of thorns that twisted in his gut.  
When she touched him again, she was so tender that it betrayed her previously terrifying words. She caressed his chest, feeling the dip of his sternum with the tips of her fingers, then placed her hands on his pecs and slowly separated them onto either side of his rib cage. He held his breath, fearful of her next move.  
Suddenly he let it out, his exhale wavering in reticent laughter as she crept her nails up towards his arms, just barely wiggling the tips of her fingers. She picked up the pace a little, already enjoying his reaction, and fluttered her fingers in the hollows of his underarms. His subdued laughter came out in lisped pants through the gag. She dug her nails in a little more and heard him giggle, slowly starting to lose control of the laughter he was determined to extinguish.  
She was tickling him. She had just insinuated that she was going to torture him, and now she was doing quite the opposite. Was she going to start off this way? Caress him, pretend to be gentle, and then break that veneer by breaking him?  
His thoughts were interrupted when she changed the position of her hands, cupping his shoulders with her fingers and digging her thumbs into his hollows. He yelped and couldn’t help but start to laugh. He tried to suppress it, but apparently his sensitivity wasn’t something he had grown out of. Her nails were wicked. It was like she was touching the nerve endings beneath his skin directly. She drilled her thumbs into the spot, smiling enthusiastically, and he shook his head, starting to lose control of the laughter he was fighting to subjugate.  
She switched gears again and reassumed the position of using all of her fingers to scribble and scratch at the sensitive spot. He shook his head again, bucking his hips up and slamming them back down on the table, growing desperate for a distraction from the sensation. She kept this up for a few minutes, until she had broken through his doughty pretense. Now he was laughing and whining into his gag, so adorably worked up, and she wanted to push him further. Slowly, her hands descended his midsection, her fingers gently wiggling as she went until she found the hem of his shirt. He was giggling as he tried to catch his breath. She snuck her hands under his shirt and crept upwards, feeling the stomach she had only seen in pictures; tight and muscular, accentuated with sensitive curves and tender abs, centered by a navel she could just fit the tip of her finger into, bordered by sharply contoured hips and solid hairless pecs.  
When her nails made contact with the hairline of his pits, she teased the soft skin with the sharp tips of her nails, barely moving her fingers and eliciting a dramatically desperate response of breathless laughter, hardly audible enough to be heard. She was aroused, but craved a more powerful reaction. She relocated her hands to his rib cage and dug her fingers into the tender bones, jumping between tactics of juddering her hands and traveling rapidly poking fingers up and down the sensitive expanse.  
Laughing and panting became a unified action. Up until this point in time, he was sure that being ticklish was something he had grown out of. As a kid he had enjoyed it, but he was struggling to enjoy it now, restrained and gagged and approaching overstimulation. Being immobilized and having the most sensitive areas of his body exposed enhanced the experience to a nearly unbearable degree. Not only that, but his tickler was startlingly skilled, employing techniques that left him breathless. When she wasn’t digging her fingers into his bones she was scribbling the tips of her torturous nails all over the skin that covered them, and she was rotating between contrivances with such celerity that he couldn’t handle it.  
The blindfold was made of leather and resisted the moisture of the tears that leaked from his eyes. He could feel it on his skin along with the sweat from his neck and scalp. There was saliva on the corners of his lips that had leaked from behind the gag. He barely had time to comprehend the thought of _oh god, I’m gonna piss myself_ before that transpired.  
She caressed his chest and torso beneath his shirt, blindly analyzing every dip and curve, tracing the outlines of muscles with her nails, and finally worked herself up enough to necessitate taking his shirt off.  
She started slow, leisurely lifting it so that the iliac crest of his hips was exposed, followed by his happy trail, and once she could see his navel she couldn’t resist bending over and trailing her tongue from the waistband of his jeans to the incurvated skin. She tongued the shallow concavity and gently kissed it, inspiring a trail of kisses up to his sternum. With his shirt now pushed up to his collarbone, she gazed upon his uncovered chest and surrendered to her lust once again and kissed the left side of his chest, practically panting into the skin, overcome by the satisfaction of finally having him at her mercy.  
She teased his nipple with the tip of her tongue before taking it into her mouth, sucking on it while fondling the other with her fingertips. He was moaning into the gag, making little sounds that oscillated between arousal and discomfort. She didn’t care. He was hers now and she was going to act out every fantasy involving him she had ever had.  
She stood and looked him over. The crotch of his jeans was saturated and his cheeks were still flushed red.  
“It’s a good thing you won’t need these anymore,” she said with a smirk as she began unbuttoning his jeans. He made a small noise, one that denoted discomfort both in the fact that she was going to further expose him and that she had pointed out his incontinence.  
He squirmed in objection as she tugged his jeans down his legs, but stilled when she withdrew the knife from his shoe. It continued to act as a reminder that she had control over his life as well as his body. He didn’t fight try to her after that.

She had never intended to keep him here. Only to languish his reluctance and allay his fear until he wanted to return to her of his own accord. It only took thirty-six hours.  
Three days of an inconsistent sleep schedule intervened by bouts of torture that he grew to enjoy. He still wasn’t fond of intense tickle torture, but soon learned that whenever he was restrained, his body belonged to her. And when he was gagged, he didn’t have a say in what she did to him. He was her tickle slave, her torture toy, her pretty little victim. She ravaged his body with her hands and her nails, her teeth and her tongue. She often worshipped his body while he was bound to the table, enjoying being the one in control even when she was pleasuring him. She knew from experience that if his hands were free he’d try and guide her head between his legs, so she kept them secure as often as possible. She was in control of his orgasms and made it known.  
She discovered that he had a thing for foot worship and would often edge him with it, and when she could tell he was about to cum she would switch gears and begin nibbling on the balls of his feet to ruin his potential orgasm. His feet were extremely ticklish, much to her pleasure, and he had a particular tickle spot where his toes met the balls of his feet. When she was feeling particularly sadistic, she would target that spot specifically and violate it relentlessly.  
She was cruel more often than she was kind. He frequently wore the head harness. He was restrained more often than not. She had implemented toe ties almost immediately after she had discovered how sensitive his feet were. Some sessions were devoted entirely to his feet, and during most of those sessions she utilized tools to maximize the torture. Thin and pointed tools such as pens and plastic rat tail combs were especially effective on his tickle spot, and mascara wands and electric toothbrushes were hell between his toes. She liked to use his body to scrutinize her collection of tickle tools.  
Tickle sessions frequently got sexual, but that usually meant she would leave him to catch his breath on the table while she rubbed one off in the other room. Only recently had she started to touch him. It had all started when she brought out a bottle of baby oil with the intent of it being the only “tool” she used during their session, and after massaging it into his upper body and ravishing the lubricated skin with her sharp nails, she moved down to his legs and would continually “accidentally” fondle his member, until his quiet pleasured sighing overwhelmed her and suddenly she was jacking him off. He hadn’t expected it in the slightest but certainly hadn’t complained. His climax bedaubed both of her hands and, still overcome with arousal, she excused herself to a shower and allowed him to join her.  
She caressed him under the torrent of water, rubbing away the oil she had just coated him in. She was exciting herself again. She guided him to the floor of the tub and crouched over him. He brought her to a shuddering climax and from then on, she began incorporating more of her own sexual pleasure into their sessions.  
One way or another she was overstimulating him.  
She would milk him dry with vibrating pumps and wands with rubber attachments, or prostate massagers on the highest intensity, or she would jack him with her hands or suck him off and swallow it, then make him taste himself on her lips.  
She would tickle him to tears. Sometimes she didn’t even have to use her tools. She would spend upwards of an hour touching him softly, languorously stroking his soles or his underarms with the tips of her nails or caressing the backs of his thighs and knees until he implored her to stop. And from there she would either launch into a merciless, hardcore tickling onslaught or sit on his face and have him assuage her. His desperation aroused her tremendously.

She released him knowing he would return. In his time away from her she presided over his sexual fantasies and her absence attenuated his orgasms. It was only a week before he came back.


End file.
